Page 120

A sob tore from her lips. Not pain. Pure, aching rightness.
He was hers. She was his.
Heart and soul.
She clung to him. Scored his back with her nails. Tasted the salt on his skin. Drank in his groans.
“Mine.” His grip tightened. His thrusts turned savage, relentless.
He slipped a hand between them.
She shattered—pleasure crashing through her like a tidal wave, her scream caught in the curve of his neck.
He came with her, hips jerking, body shaking, a rough groan breaking from his chest.
She held him as he collapsed, his weight grounding her, his heartbeat pounding against her breasts.
Proof of life. Proof ofthem.
But even as his warmth surrounded her, reality clawed its way back in.
Vincente always won.
And if he saw the truth in her eyes—if he guessed how deeply she loved Caleb—he’d kill him.
Just to watch her break.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vincenteflunghisphone.
It bounced, skidded across the glass table, then tumbled onto the plush white carpet. Rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Miami Beach penthouse as an evening storm system rolled through southern Florida. Lightning forked from towering gray clouds to meet the churning aqua waves below.
Varella had hung up on him.
Pendejo. The disrespect.
Jaw tight, he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, fingers interlocked to keep from smashing his fists through the table. “Do you think they’re serious?”
Juan stood by the windows, staring out.
He turned with a shrug. “About exchanging your woman for the Indian girl? Does it matter? We’ll bring enough men to make sure you get what you want.”
What Vincente wanted?
So many things.
“I want Gianna returned to me and thiscabrónleft to rot in the desert, bones picked clean by scavengers,” he snarled.
Varella thought he controlled the situation?
He’ll find out who’s the one in control.
He reached forhis cortadito, thick with sugar and steamed milk. It was the wrong drink for the time of day, and with his heart already racing.
What he needed was liquor.
Or to fuck.